


A Memory Never to be Stolen

by Dassandre



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-10 11:09:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14735840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dassandre/pseuds/Dassandre
Summary: He saw the smears of dried blood on the tips of his charcoal suede brogues.  More had soaked into the knees of his woolen trouser.





	A Memory Never to be Stolen

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this last week in the 00Q forum on FB. There have been a few minor edits. It is inspired from a still shot of Ben Whishaw from “A Very English Scandal” that I thought would work for a spot of Q angst.

 

 

Q stared at a spot on the floor between his shoes. Normally, he’d see the well-worn tile, scuffed and dull from extended use, and the square closest to him with a chip in the corner that had expanded into a crack that curved back on itself.

He saw none of that today.

He saw the smears of dried blood on the tips of his charcoal suede brogues.  More had soaked into knees of his woollen trouser.

His elbows rested on his knees, hands lightly clasped together. They, too, were coated in blood that had dried into the crevices of his palms and deep into the quick of his fingernails.

He felt nothing.

He felt everything.

His senses ran riot over coherent thought.

He saw the blood on his body and, in his mind’s eye, back in the street.

Heard the truncated cry of shock and fear.  It repeated over and over inside his head, and he feared it would be the only thing he _ever_ heard again.

Smelt the acrid scent of petrol and rubber burnt on pavement.  It still burned in his nostrils and hung thickly on the back of his throat.

Felt the pulse dwindle and stop beneath his fingertips.  It was quickly followed by the stuttering pain of denial and disbelief in his own chest.

Heard his own cries of confusion and fear and grief.  They still rang in his ears.

Tasted the bitter salt of tears and gagged upon them.

A repeating cycle of senses that would linger forever.

A large, warm hand rested on his shoulder, another cupped beneath his armpit, pulling him tenderly to his feet. “C’mon, Q.” A pair of warm lips pressed against his temple. “I’m taking you home,” James said. “There’s nothing left to be done here.”

He wanted to pull away, but he’d no energy, sucked dry by anguish and his own impotent actions.

James linked a silk scarf the color of jonquils around Q’s neck. It was remarkably free of blood.  Eve had been wearing it at lunch.

A sudden gust of wind on the walk back to Six.

One step too far into the street to retrieve —

Q inhaled. “Smells like her,” he muttered and dipped his nose into the cool fabric again. “I don’t want her to be gone.”

“None of us do, love.”  The shaken hollowness in James’ tone intensified the grief in Q’s heart.

“None of us do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think.


End file.
